Poems and fiction in English by a writer from Finland.
International pictures also included.
Some facts, too. Occasionally.

Saturday, 11 June 2011

Roses Are Roses Are Roses

Heatwave. Yesterday Finland was the warmest place in Europe. In the whole world, if I remember correctly.

Time for roses.

For those who graduate, those who find summer love, for those who water their plants in the garden.

Roses in bushes. The sweet, warm scent reminds me of childhood. It was always summer, it was always warm, it was the never ending days filled with reading, reading, escaping from this world. I loved those dark pinkish petals. So did bees. Dangerous flowers.

Helsinki. Ranked to be the best place to live in the world. I agree. I like Helsinki. It's big enough, small enough. In summertime wonderful. Winters I hate anywhere up here in the north.

Heatwave. Also in my brain, so nothing new. Depression is my middle name, anxiety the suburb I live in, emptiness my state of mind.

Helsinki is pretty as June. It shares the first summer month's barely describable, lively lightness but also the nagging hollowness, the sensation of inevitable death that comes with peaking life. It's the same feeling as in von Trier's Antichrist or in Caravaggio's still life paintings - perhaps. The city has gotten stuck in its own cycle of time, and anyone, who spends too long in its gently sway, forgets about the kinds of procreative energies that may lead into more dynamic decomposition and creativity elsewhere. An elaborate ghost city.

BLOGitse, Finns don't smile, they know that winter comes again and again, year after year.

SoS, maybe we need that June-feeling to make it through the dark and gloomy months of autumn and winter? I recognize in myself the need to be not so productive, not so creative for a while during the year, and I long to sway to the sounds of city lullaby.Don't know. I'm always tired.